“Woman, I could beat you to death in the Rose Garden and people would say, ‘Well, it’s 2016,’ and then give me a parade.”

“I was trying to relate to Jay.”

“Forget that he’s black. Talk to him like he’s rich.”

“Oh, hell: I know how to talk to rich people. Will he pay me to talk to him? Rich people love paying me to talk to them.”

“Hillary, I had to do several favors to set this up.”

“What?”

“Blue Ivy got accepted to Harvard.”

“She’s four.”

“Early acceptance.”

“Okay.”

“Listen, me and Michelle aren’t going to be the president and first lady come next year, but Jay and Bey are still going to be Jay and Bey, got me? I will no longer have the armed forces, and she’ll have the Beyhive. I need to stay on the Black Illuminati’s good side.”

“The what?”

“Nothing. Just stop being weird. Don’t do your little accent, don’t pull out your hot sauce, don’t start talking about how many Stevie Wonder records you have. You’re not Bill; you can’t pull it off.”

“Fine.”

“Speaking of which: where is Bill?”

“Nowhere near Beyoncé.”

“Good.”

…

“How’s she looking?”

“Bey?”

“Yeah.”

“I would.”

“Sure. Do you, uhhh, hear a weird noise?”

“Like angry breathing?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Eh, probably nothing. Hillary: don’t fuck this up.”

“Suck my dick, Barry.”

“Before you act, just ask yourself: what would Obama do? And then do that.”